Good Luck Charm
by DeniseV
Summary: Seriously, how much luck could these two really have to have crashed in the wilderness? An episode tag for "She Ain't Deep But She Sure Runs Fast".


**The only sure thing about luck is that it will change. – **_**Wilson Mizner**_

**_* * * * *_**

Judge Milton C. Hardcastle had been worried about Mark McCormick since the day the plane crashed. Buzz Bird's death in the accident had affected the older man deeply; it was always hard to see another person from his generation go, but Hardcastle's greater concern now was for the young man who had become so important in his life. That concern was tinged with some guilt: Mark McCormick wouldn't have been lost in the wilds of Oregon's back country and suffering this misadventure with the judge if Hardcastle hadn't insisted that he come along. The kid brushing this point off early on had only resulted in making him feel worse about getting them into this mess in the first place. He'd prefer they still be arguing over Creedence Clearwater.

McCormick's limp had become more pronounced in the last few days. Whatever was wrong with his foot hadn't worked its way out, though the fact that they'd had to be constantly on the move hadn't helped with healing. But the judge noticed something else since they'd gotten the upper hand on Taylor and his cronies. His young friend had been quiet and decidedly down about their prospects for surviving this extreme test of their wilderness skills. Milt also suspected that the kid was sick, though McCormick hadn't let the judge close enough in the last few days to tell for sure. But the tell-tale sign was there: a persistent fine sheen of sweat that had started just on his forehead days ago but had spread to keep his sidekick uncomfortably sweaty and warm for some time now. The judge suspected that the foot and the fever were somehow related, and that was something they'd be getting to the bottom of right quick, now that they were back in civilization, such that it was.

And though Milt Hardcastle was worried for the kid's physical well-being as they hobbled towards a shower and food and hopefully a doctor, now that they'd left the murderous Taylor in the sheriff's custody, he would soon have McCormick alone so that he could broach the subject of his friend's mental state.

Ever since that first night after the crash, when they'd had a chance to talk about what-ifs, their fate, their legacies, Hardcastle had been concerned with Mark's self-assessment. His talk of their bodies being found, Hardcastle's own being known – and celebrated as a fine man and jurist – and McCormick's identified as 'and another man' or describing himself as 'always someone's sidekick' or 'just the guy standing next to you'. Did the kid really think that these words described the extent of his worth? Yes, they needed to talk about the depth of Mark's tracks in the sand, for they were clearly deeper, and ran longer, than Mark McCormick thought. Milt wondered how much he had contributed to the young man's poor self-esteem. It was hard to see, that McCormick lacked that most important attribute, given the way he hid under the cocky bravado. Hardcastle knew that the boy from Jersey City was still right there, right under the surface. And he knew that Mark yearned for so much that he had not gotten while growing up, after his mother died. Encouragement, which Hardcastle thought he had been pretty good at providing since the ex-con had come to stay with him at Gulls Way. Praise for work well done; this, the retired judge knew, he'd been less than forthcoming with. He would have to remedy that, for Mark had certainly done good work…hard work…dangerous work as Tonto to his Lone Ranger. A feeling of being accepted…as he was: a work in progess. Milt knew that he'd had a hand in making the kid feel wanted, and needed. Hardcastle may not have been willing to accept him completely as he was, at least not as he was fresh from prison; rehabilitating the ex-con was, after all, a big part of the deal. McCormick was on track for meeting the requirements of his parole, and had turned into a fine man and a productive member of society. He had Frank Harper and any number of other police personnel who would attest to that.

Loved. Mark McCormick yearned most for this most precious commodity in his life. He was a grown man, but the scars of his youth shown clearly, nearly every day. Hardcastle had some work to go there. Milt knew that his own painful personal history contributed to his failure to make the kid understand how important he was. Losing his son, and his wife – and old friends – contributed to a closing off of those feelings, or at least those experiences factored in to his inability to share his most intimate feelings freely. But McCormick had obviously heard more than Hardcastle thought he did back at that first campfire of this wretched trip. Maybe that line of communication was now opened – permanently – and they could begin working a little more closely on those feelings that had somehow always been there, lurking, waiting for someone to call them what they truly were. Hardcastle knew when he'd targeted McCormick that the kid would need discipline – a father figure – and he felt that he was up to the task, that this 'experiment', as Frank liked to call it, would work. He hadn't been looking for another son; he had already been through that part of his life, and it still hurt sometimes when he thought too much about it. Little did he know how drastically his feelings would change for this irritating, endearing, sometimes sarcastic and most importantly, very good man.

As they walked towards the lone hotel and restaurant in this tiny dot of a mountain town, Hardcastle felt McCormick's grasp on his shoulder tighten. The judge turned to his left to see Mark's eyes shut as he walked, a faint grimace on his face. The kid was hurting and, now that they were no longer responsible for minding Taylor, it seemed McCormick had no more resources left to hide it or deny it.

"You okay?" Hardcastle asked as they closed in on their destination.

"I'm tired, Judge," was Mark's simple reply, though the older man knew there was more to it than that. McCormick opened his eyes and slowed to a near stop.

"Me, too, Sport. But we're just steps…" Hardcastle noticed that McCormick was now a stride or two behind him, with his hand still reaching out to hold onto the judge, as though he needed that support to remain on his feet.

"What's wrong?" The judge stopped, McCormick joining him, grateful for the break.

"I don't feel good," Mark admitted. He was staring at the step ahead of him, watching as people made their way out of the building, many taking a chance to get a good glance at these modern day 'mountain men'. McCormick finally looked to the judge and said, "I don't know how I'm gonna get up that step."

"How bad is that foot? And don't give me any of that crap that you've been tellin' me for weeks."

"It feels pretty bad. It hurts real bad on the top and on the side, near my big toe. I think something might be broken." Mark saw the concern in the judge's face as it quickly morphed to anger. "And don't bother yellin' at me. We both looked at it early on and we agreed there wasn't anything we could do. We had to keep moving."

Hardcastle knew his friend was right. There could be no 'setting' of any bones in Mark's foot, certainly nothing that Hardcastle knew about. He was no doctor, after all. Plus, they were in the wilderness. Their options had been woefully limited. And McCormick was also right about the need to keep moving; they needed to limit as much as possible the length of time they remained in the Oregon woods and in the middle of nowhere.

"Yeah, you're right."

"I am?" Mark asked lightly.

"Knock it off," the judge replied as the young man laughed; it was the first genuine laugh he'd heard from McCormick in weeks. "Let's get you up this step."

"And hope they have a room for us on the first floor," Mark added.

"You can get washed up first while I try to track down a doctor."

"Uh, can't that wait? Can't Charlie look at it when we get back home?"

"No, McCormick, it can't wait." It surprised him every time: Hardcastle never tired of hearing Mark refer to Gulls Way as _home_. And he was encouraged by the fact that the kid was at least admitting to the necessity of seeing a doctor, even if he was in denial about needing one for more than just his foot.

"We've been out here a month, Judge. I think it can wait another day. Plus, what kind of doctor do you think we're gonna find in this town?"

"Actually, a pretty good one." The voice came from just ahead of them, up on the decking that made up the frontier-like porch of the hotel. The front doors were even swinging ones, like they had at the entrance to Old West saloons. "Let me give you a hand up."

"Thanks," McCormick said. The judge and the stranger helped the injured man up and then Mark added, "No offense, but what doctor would want to work in a place like this?"

"He'd have to be kind of a nut, I grant you that," the well-dressed man nodded. He wore khakis and a blue golf shirt and looked like he'd just stepped out of the pages of _GQ_, and was on his way to play eighteen holes. He definitely stood out from much of the crowd in this town.

"Well, yeah," Mark agreed.

"A little eccentric," the man went on as he kept a firm hand on McCormick's left elbow. Hardcastle continued to assist from the right, only now he had his arm around Mark's waist.

The judge looked around, surveying the rundown town, and felt compelled to agree. "Kinda crazy."

"A lot like Buzz Bird," Mark mumbled softly.

"Hey, don't talk about the dead like that," Hardcastle said.

"Well, I'm not lyin'," Mark added. He might not be feeling very well, but he was always up for anything that would bug his friend.

"Buzz was crazy," the man helping them said, as though simply stating a well-known fact. "The authorities found the wreckage of his plane and his grave. You were the two who were with him?"

"Yep, that's us," McCormick kidded, "Jeremiah Hardcastle and 'Bear Claw' McCormick."

The stranger laughed. "I am glad you made it. It's a shame about Buzz, though."

"Buzz was a good man. I'm Milt Hardcastle, and this smart-aleck is Mark McCormick."

The man reached his hand out to Milt and then to Mark. "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Jeff Hannaford." He held McCormick's hand a little longer than necessary, and then added, "That's DOCTOR Jeff Hannaford to _you_."

"Ah…huh," Mark uttered as he shook the man's hand, feeling caught in that situation his mother always told him to be careful of - don't say anything if you can't say something nice - _and_ being the brunt of an unspoken joke. He was embarrassed to say the least, though that wouldn't show up very well with the beard and the hair and his face already flushed with fever. He smiled, knowing that he'd been caught… twice-over. The judge gave an enthusiastic chuckle.

"Don't worry about it," Dr. Hannaford said, sensing Mark's discomfort. "Fact of the matter is that we're all a little crazy. Look at you two. You got on a plane with Buzz Bird."

If Mark McCormick's look could kill, Milton C. Hardcastle would be dead.

"Don't bother, Kiddo. I don't wanna hear it. And I can't really see the look that you're giving me. You need a shave and a haircut. Real bad."

"Oh yeah? And you should leave yours just the way it is," McCormick retorted smartly, though the harshness of the comment was undercut by the swaying.

"You two are quite a comedy act, but it seems to me that two men who were in a plane crash and out in the wilderness for a month should get a check-up," Hannaford said. He looked at Mark. "And you? You look a bit peaked. You're feverish, nauseous, feeling unsteady?" Both the physician and the retired jurist looked to the ex-con for a response.

Mark looked from one man to the other, starting with his friend, then the doctor, and then ended up looking at Hardcastle. He said, "I give up," and rolled his eyes, but knew as soon as he'd done it that it was a mistake. He teetered backwards, stepping badly on his bad foot in order to keep from falling. The doctor and the judge grabbed an arm each and walked McCormick quickly through the doors of the hotel-restaurant and sat him down in the nearest chair.

"I'll go get you checked in. You can freshen up while I head back to my office for some things I think I'll need. I'll send Bubba over to give you fellas a haircut and a shave."

"Bubba?" Mark asked woozily as he held his head. He had felt overcome by a cold sweat when the doctor and Hardcastle had grabbed for him and ushered him to a seat. He nearly fainted. Now, his elbows were on his knees as he held his head down near his knees, a position that Dr. Hannaford had forced him into.

"Bubba's the only game in town. Doesn't give a bad cut," the doctor said, followed the comment with a perplexed look as he touched the back of his hair, and then added, "Well, it worked eventually."

"Huh?" Mark asked as he raised his head too fast. "Ugh," he groaned as he put his head back down. "He can give me a shave, but he's not touching my hair."

"Ah, you and that hair," the judge said offhandedly.

"You wouldn't say that if you had any," Mark replied. His voice sounded weak. The judge let the smart comment slide.

But the doctor didn't. He snorted a laugh. "You two are something else." Hannaford left to go take care of things at the front desk.

Hardcastle sat down next to McCormick and put his hand on the ex-con's back. "You all right?" he asked worriedly.

"No."

"Sorry about all this, Kiddo."

"'s not your fault. 's probably mine. Bad luck is my specialty."

Hardcastle got up and moved a chair in front of his friend. He sat down and said, "Look at me." Mark kept his head in his hands. "Mark," the judge insisted. McCormick raised his head, slowly, and looked at Hardcastle; he knew the judge meant business when he used Mark's given name. "I don't want to hear you talkin' like that. You've done good things since we started all this. You've come a long way."

"You think?" Mark asked. "It doesn't feel…I don't know, Judge. Sometimes I feel like, the way things turned out, that I'd be a disappointment to…" McCormick paused and lowered his head to his chest. The long hesitation was enough for the judge to interject his own thoughts on the matter.

"You aren't a disappointment to me. I think you've done great."

"Not to you." McCormick raised his head and gave a weak smile. "Thanks for sayin' that." He put his head back down and went on. "To my mother. I think she would be disappointed." He touched the medal that was always present, shook his head, sighed, and continued. "I had this dream for the longest time of what life would have been like if she hadn't died." Mark looked up at the judge. He said with a shy grin, "Things would have been so different." He looked back down. "I would have gone to college, she was pretty clear that she expected me to." Just one more disappointment in the young man's view of himself, Hardcastle was sure was the unspoken meaning. "I'd graduate with a degree in something far, far removed from anything Sonny did. I'd get a job, probably in engineering or run a construction company, get married. None of the men in my family were worth much, so my mom would probably have stood up for me." Again, a small hint of what McCormick's life had been like: no mention of a best friend to do the standing up for him. The judge wondered if the kid had ever learned what it meant to have a true best friend. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten into the trouble he had if he'd enjoyed a friendship like that. "We'd have kids, build a house…get a dog." Mark looked up, sad eyes, almost beseeching…

"We're not getting a dog," Hardcastle grouched.

McCormick snorted a wry laugh. "Don't worry, Hardcase. I've got enough troubles training you. They weren't kidding about teaching old dogs new tricks."

"You think it's been a piece of cake housebreaking you?"

Mark chuckled. "Touché." They were interrupted by the return of Dr. Hannaford.

"You've got room four." He handed Hardcastle the key. "Do you need help getting there?"

"We'll manage," Hardcastle answered. He hoped to have some more time to talk to McCormick. He knew the kid needed to talk. He had some important things to say as well.

"Be back in a jiffy," the doctor said as he made his way energetically out the door.

"You can tell that man hasn't spent the last month out in the wilds of Oregon, foraging and stressed by the fear of bears and chance encounters with lunatic denizens of the backwoods."

"I sure hope there aren't more like Taylor out there," Hardcastle noted. He left any more commentary on their time in the wild for another time in order to get back to the topic at hand. "You know, I think sometimes you still see yourself more as an ex-con than I do."

"Hah!" Mark said as he sat up, too fast. He slowly eased himself back, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, massaging his eyes before going on. "I doubt that. You're the one who keeps reminding me of my place, of how precarious my situation is."

Hardcastle grimaced. It was true, he was always trigger-happy with the threat, but he'd not meant those asides seriously in a long, long time. But how was McCormick to really know that? He hadn't been able to tell the kid how much he meant to him, not really. For all McCormick knew, being his parole officer was still the measure of the depth of their relationship. Sure, they were friendlier now; they'd lived through some harrowing, dangerous stuff. And there was no question that they had become closer after the judge had been shot. But there was no way the kid could know that the judge cared too much for him now to ever have him sent back to prison. It was McCormick's greatest fear, always front and center, and a major factor in every action he took, including reluctantly agreeing to some things Hardcastle came up with that had potentially lethal outcomes. The fact was that Mark McCormick was a changed man who no longer needed the threat of prison bars to keep on track.

But did Mark know any of these things? He was a smart guy, but it was completely natural for him to allow his fears to drive his actions. And his thoughts. It frustrated the retired jurist that their relationship hadn't seemed to move beyond this, and of course, Hardcastle being Hardcastle, gruff won out over gentle in how he explained his side of that no longer tenable situation.

"Don't ya know I'm just kidding about that? I'd never send you back to prison now."

"Oh, really? Well, sure, that makes sense now that I think about it. Now that you've got your slave trained the way you like…"

"Hey! That's not it and you know it!"

"How'm I s'posed to know that?" Mark wiped the ever-more-quickly accumulating sweat from his brow and then rubbed his forehead some more. He felt that cold sweat overcome him again, and he knew he needed to settle this before he passed out. He also knew that the last month hadn't helped his disposition, and to be fair, it had been a while since the judge had made any threats to send him back to prison.

"Judge, I'm…I'm sorry," McCormick said. A chill came over him and he shivered. "Um…" he started again, still rubbing, now massaging his whole face. It was obvious that he was feeling worse the longer they sat there…and the longer they talked. "I know things have changed. They've sure changed for me." He looked Hardcastle in the eyes. "I never expected to feel this way about someone again." Mark swayed toward the judge, and Hardcastle grabbed him on either arm to steady him. "I…" McCormick tried again.

And then his head fell against Hardcastle's chest. The judge could tell he was passed out – the entire six feet of the young man weighed heavily on him. That dead weight was fast slipping off of the cheap naugahyde chair; Hardcastle eased him from the seat to the floor.

"Hey!" he called toward the front desk. "Can someone call Dr. Hannaford?"

A young woman hurried over from the lobby's greeting area. "What's wrong?"

"My friend just fainted. Dr. Hannaford was heading to his office for his bag," Hardcastle explained.

"I'll go call him. Do you need someone to help you get your friend to your room?" she asked helpfully.

"I'd like the Doc to make that call. Is that okay?"

"Sure," the woman replied sadly. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you, but so many of us are glad that you took care of Taylor's lot."

"Well, thanks, but I think we just really were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Maybe. But it's also kinda like the survival of the fittest. You guys won, and a lot of us are grateful."

"But not all of you?" Hardcastle asked. He was curious enough to ask, even though it meant a short delay in retrieving the doctor.

"There are some people who think that someone has to protect the land. They admire Taylor's commitment, and some can ignore the horrible things that he does. I don't think you can ever forgive murder, no matter how noble you think your cause is."

"You're right about that," the judge said. He saw her nametag. "Julie, are you from here?"

"Born and raised, but I went to school in Portland." Julie looked down at McCormick. "I better go fetch Dr. Hannaford." She turned, and bumped right into the doctor.

"He fainted, huh?" Jeff asked.

"He did," Hardcastle noted.

Jeff kneeled next to his patient. "Let's take a look. He seemed on his last legs."

"We haven't had a lot to eat, and he's skinny as it is. And the kid's been sick, though he tried to hide that fact from me. He hurt his foot in the crash, and I think he might have a couple of broken bones."

"And you've got nary a scratch on your face," the doctor said, giving Hardcastle a sympathetic grin.

"Well, I did have that," the judge replied, feeling with his hand where'd he'd knocked his head during the crash landing. "If you listened to McCormick, he'd tell you that he specializes in bad luck."

"And you don't think so?" the doctor countered as he took his stethoscope and listened to Mark's heart and breathing.

"I can see why he might think that way."

"But you're here to try to keep that from happening," Hannaford said matter-of-factly.

"I didn't do so good this time, but…yeah," Hardcastle admitted.

"This was kind of a fluke, don't you think? A plane crash and crazies all in one package. That's not bad luck. That's disastrous luck," the doctor said as he took a thermometer and gently placed it in Mark's mouth, under his tongue. He checked Mark's pulse and then started to remove his shoe.

"I guess." Hardcastle stayed quiet as Dr. Hannaford finished his exam. The doctor took the thermometer out and shook his head. "What is it?"

"It's a hundred and two point two."

"Kind of high."

"Yep."

"Do you think it's because of his foot?"

"It could be, but I won't know that until I can x-ray it. I think for now we'll treat the symptoms, because he's dead on his feet, no pun intended, and it wouldn't hurt to let him sleep for a while. I am going to wrap that foot so that it stays immobile until we do the x-ray tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Why not today?" Hardcastle asked. They both looked to Mark, who moaned lightly as he started to come to.

"Because he's feeling lousier than he's letting on. He passed out because he's stubborn."

"You're telling me?"

Dr. Hannaford smiled but he had serious things to say. "His pulse is fast and so's his heart rate, just a little. I'd like him in a bed sleeping for the rest of the day. He's stressed out and exhausted. From a triage perspective, the foot's pretty low priority, and we can control that it not get any worse. Better to go for the low hanging fruit. I'll start him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic to get a jumpstart on any infection. Rest will help him feel better, and that's the most important thing right now. His foot is as messed up as it's going to get. He's been walking on it for a month, right?"

"Yeah, we didn't…" The doctor interrupted him.

"I understand, I'm not being critical. I'll set up an I.V., get him properly hydrated, start replacing some nutrients, electrolytes. He's sure to feel world's better just from that." He turned to his patient. "Mark, come on. Time to wake up."

McCormick's eyes started to move rapidly under his closed lids, and then his eyes popped open quickly. "Judge!" he yelled. Several people in the lobby looked their way.

"Sssh, calm down, Sport. I'm right here."

"Oh. I…uh…I guess I passed out."

"You did," Hannaford said. Mark looked to him quizzically. "Dr. Jeff Hannaford, crazy doctor man?"

"I remember." Mark squinted and rubbed his temple. "My head's pounding."

"Come on, Sport. The doc and I are gonna help you to our room."

"Oh, I don't know, Judge. I'm kinda liking it down here. Things seemed to have stopped spinning around. I'm not sure it's such a good idea to press my luck."

"I can get Julie to fetch a wheelchair. We can help you," Dr. Hannaford explained, "but it would certainly be safer for you, with that dizziness, if we used the chair."

McCormick looked around, watching people watching him. "No, I can walk it." He looked to the judge. "Well, come on, Hardcase. You gonna help me up?"

"You see what I have to live with?" Hardcastle asked the doctor as they both helped Mark to a standing position. "It's not easy, you know." It was unclear just who that comment was intended for, the doctor, with Hardcastle's attempt to explain his long-suffering dealings with the young man, or McCormick as just more bickering between the two. "I can't read minds, not that I believe in that stuff."

"You're not the one who needs to be clairvoyant around here," McCormick retorted as he walked, well-aided on either side, to the hotel room. "I'm the one who never knows what's going to happen next. Maybe if I had visions I'd at least have a say."

"You've got a say. You're a grown man."

"I am, am I? It's hard to tell sometimes that you think that."

"Ah, I don't know what you're talking about," the older man complained. He looked at McCormick, who looked unlikely to make it all the way to room four. It may only have been the fourth room over, but it seemed a long way away just then. "I doubt you know what you're talking about right now."

"You could be right," Mark conceded as he unconsciously began to lean heavier on the judge.

"Almost there, Kid," Hardcastle said with concern. The retired jurist handed the key over to the doctor as he took a tighter hold on McCormick. Dr. Hannaford unlocked the door, flipped the light switch on and surveyed the room.

"Can you take him a minute?" the physician asked.

"I've got him." Jeff proceeded to remove the bedspread, pull the sheet and blanket down, and set two pillows, one on top of the other, at the head of the bed.

"Okay, let's let him sit and we'll get these clothes off." They did that, but as McCormick got closer to having just his skivvies on, he started to fight them.

"I need a shower."

Hardcastle looked at the doctor. Jeff said, "Well, I agree, but can you stand up long enough for that?"

"I'm not layin' down 'til I get this filth offa me," Mark insisted. "And what about that shave?"

"Bubba's coming." Dr. Hannaford looked at the exhausted young man as he swayed sitting down. "Okay, I'll take you in for a shower, but I'm staying while you bathe."

"I've been taking showers a long time all by myself. I think I can…" Hardcastle interrupted the impending rant.

"Hey! Knock it off. You're getting help. It's either him or me. Take your pick."

McCormick took no time to decide. "You," he said angrily, followed by a more accommodating tone, "no offense, Doc."

"None taken," the physician smiled.

**

* * *

**

Luck never gives; it only lends. – _Swedish proverb_

_* * * * *_

McCormick finally started to stir. Heavy, deep breathing gave way to hesitant puffs, his head began to move on the pillow. He stretched his neck, and then stopped with a grimace. He breathed deeply a couple of times and then started to open his eyes. He blinked and pulled his hand up to his face. Mark rubbed his eyes, finding them crusty at the corners. He yawned, took another deep breath, and finally kept his eyes open long enough to see Hardcastle staring at him.

"Morning," McCormick eked, his voice scratchy. He coughed and tried again. "Morning."

"Yeah, that's true."

"Time izzit?" Mark asked tiredly.

"About seventeen hours since we got you to bed."

"Seventeen hours!" he complained as he lifted his head from the pillow. Using his elbows to keep himself propped up, he asked accusingly, "Why'd you let me sleep that long?"

"Because you needed it. Doc recommended it, and I agreed." Hardcastle examined McCormick's face critically and then asked, "How're ya feeling?"

Mark sighed as he laid his head back on the pillow. "Tired." He felt his forehead. "Do I still have a fever? Feels like it."

"I dunno. Let's check." Hardcastle took the thermometer on the nightstand and handed it to his friend. Mark placed it in his mouth. "You gah schav'd. Wha' 'bou ee?" McCormick felt his face and sighed.

"Bubba was here. Took care of both of us."

"Mah 'air!" he said as he raised his head from the pillow once more.

"Nobody touched your precious hair, Goldilocks." That seemed to satisfy McCormick, though he did feel the extra long curls just to make sure. "But I'll tell you this: that Bubba is something else." Mark took the thermometer out and looked to read it. He handed it to the judge.

"Not awake yet. You read it." Hardcastle did.

"One hundred point three. Still got it, but it's better."

"What's up with Bubba? Don't tell me, Bubba's _lightfooted_."

"Worse. Bubba's a girl. Pretty, too."

"A girl? Why that…Hannaford. He coulda said…"

Hardcastle stopped him. "And ruin all his fun? I think that guy lives for the joke."

"And the joke was on me. Again."

"You're an easy target, Kiddo." Hardcastle didn't elaborate on how Mark could sometimes be too naïve for his own good. He eyed him closely. "You hungry?"

"A little." McCormick started to make to rise from the bed.

"No. Dr. Hannaford will be here in about another hour or so. It's early, you know. Restaurant won't be open 'til at least then. Why don't you get some more sleep?"

"I could do that. I am tired. You sure I slept that long?"

"Yes, I'm sure you slept that long."

"Huh. Wake me up for breakfast this time, will ya? I missed lunch and dinner."

"You bet, Sport."

An hour later, Jeff Hannaford knocked lightly on the door. Hardcastle opened it quickly, hoping that McCormick would sleep through the interruption. The doctor greeted him, enthusiastically, but quietly, in case the patient was still asleep.

"Hey there, Milt. How's Mark this morning?" he nearly whispered.

"I'm awake."

Hannaford turned to McCormick. "How's Mark this morning?" he asked again.

"Mark is tired."

"Hm," Jeff said as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Can you scoot up some?" he asked. McCormick did. "I took some blood yesterday..."

"You did?" the ex-con asked through a yawn.

"I did. You are mighty rundown, my friend. I also found evidence of a bug or spider bite. Have you had reactions to bug bites before?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, I think a minor reaction to that bite, and your general bad health from being out in the wilderness, poor diet for the last month...just several things have coalesced at the same time to knock you on your ass."

"Great," Mark noted.

"You'll recover. Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Just a little?" the judge asked. "Not a lot?"

"No, not a lot," Mark admitted.

"That's not good," Hardcastle said to the doctor.

"It's to be expected, really. So long as we can get some food in him I'll be happy," Hannford replied to the older man.

"Usually it's keeping all of the food in the house from going in that's the problem," Hardcastle griped.

"As a physician, I have to say that a healthy appetite is a good thing."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to pay the grocery bills."

"You don't have to tell me. I raised two boys, who played sports. Beasts'll eat you out of house and home."

"I guess you do know..."

"Ahem! I'm in the room," McCormick whined. "Are we going to eat sometime soon?" he asked, looking at the judge. He turned to the doctor. "Can I go home?"

"Milt and I talked about that and we're going to take an image of your foot after you eat. I just want to see what's what, and then we can wrap it up and get you a crutch so that you don't damage it any further. You can have any work that needs to be done on it done back in Los Angeles."

"Work? Like surgery?"

"Not _like_ surgery. Surgery. If there are breaks where you are complaining of pain, that will require surgery to fix. But let's worry about first things first, okay?" Jeff suggested. "So, who's hungry?"

**

* * *

**

Each misfortune you encounter will carry in it the seed of tomorrow's good luck. - _Og Mandino_

_* * * * *_

Hardcastle and McCormick made their way, slowly, back to the hotel. McCormick ate his scrambled eggs and toast but opted out on the bacon and homefries. The judge decided not to give him a hard time, at least not until the next meal. Their walk around the town reinforced what a tiny mountain town they'd found themselves in. A diner, a restaurant, a bank, a post office, sheriff's office, a five-and-dime, which sold not a single item for a nickel and just a tiny lollipop for ten cents, a gas station, a corner grocery/pharmacy. The town hall shared its building with the barber shop. That there was enough of a population to sustain all of this seemed a minor miracle, but then again, that the judge and the ex-con had survived their wilderness adventure had been a miracle in its own right, so they were inclined to believe in them, at least for today.

The one thing the town did have going for it was a pretty good doctor, a decent hotel, and a remote, serene location near to the wooded beauty of the Oregon back country. But that was unlikely to impress Hardcastle and McCormick again anytime soon.

McCormick, the judge noted, was fading fast. After breakfast they followed the doctor over to his clinic and had Mark's foot x-rayed. There were two true fractures and one hairline in McCormick's foot. Dr. Hannaford wrapped the foot well, gave Mark some pain pills and the option of a crutch or an old wooden cane. Mark took the cane, and the doctor wished them both well on their return home. As Milt eyed McCormick's gait, he determined that the kid was leaning a little too much on that cane for his taste. He grabbed Mark's arm and placed it over his shoulder.

"Thanks," McCormick said tiredly.

They continued towards their room, planning a short nap for both of them, as Hardcastle had been more worried about McCormick's too-long rest than he was about getting any good sleep himself. Breakfast and the x-ray and discussing the results with Hannaford had just about worn McCormick out. They wouldn't get on the road for home until the following day. Hopefully, after some more sleep, Mark would have more of an appetite and they could enjoy a nice dinner and a good night's sleep and then pack up the truck and head for home, leaving this terrible experience behind them.

"Hey, that Jeff Hannaford, he's something else, huh? And funny?" the judge said conversationally as they approached their room. He let go of his friend to search for his room key.

"Oh, yeah. He's a hoot, especially when I'm the butt of the joke."

"Ah, that was just takin' advantage of a good opportunity. You can't blame him for that."

"Gee, Judge. Thanks for your support."

"Hey, I'm there for ya, Kid, you know that," Hardcastle said with an evil laugh. "Whoomph."

"What's that, Hardcase?" McCormick asked. He turned left to find Hardcastle on the ground, some stranger kicking the crap out of him.

"Hey!" Mark yelled. He took the cane he'd been given by Dr. Hannaford and whacked it across the back of the man who had suddenly attacked the judge. The cane broke, and caused little effect save for the one McCormick was going for, which was to get the guy to stop his assault on Hardcastle. The man turned from his original target and shoved Mark hard. McCormick didn't have his cane any longer to help with balance, and his foot wasn't going to help him in keeping him upright. The next thing their attacker did told both Hardcastle and McCormick all they needed to regarding on whose behalf he was acting: he kicked his foot, aiming straight for Mark's bad one. Mark's admiration for Muhammed Ali's techniques worked for him in that moment as he lifted his foot deftly, just barely getting it out of the way. That was, unfortunately, all that was needed to send him flailing to the ground. He watched helplessly as he fell, feeling at least a little satisfaction in seeing Hardcastle blindside the guy with a mean tackle even as he himself landed on the hard, dusty ground.

At first, McCormick had been sure that the Bronko Nagurski-like, take-no-prisoners tackle was good enough, but the guy had surprising strength in his lean frame. He was back up and fighting with Hardcastle again. Mark tried to get up to help, but with nothing to hold on to and one bum foot, he wasn't making much headway. Luckily, help came from a different source, Julie, from the hotel, who was heading in to work and saw the ruckus. She took the tote she was carrying, yelled, "Judge!" which was enough warning to get Hardcastle to move out of the way, and slammed it hard into the attacker's crotch. He folded quickly to the ground, holding his groin and spewing invectives that had the judge blushing, let alone Mark and Julie. All this activity had finally drawn the attention of the sheriff.

"Keller, I was wondering when you'd show up," the lawman said. He cuffed the still writhing and seething man. "I was surprised when Taylor showed up and you weren't with him." He turned to speak to Hardcastle and McCormick. "He's in with Taylor real heavy-like."

"Did you think maybe that might have been something good for us to know?" the judge asked, annoyance clear in the question.

"Yeah, um, sorry about that," the sheriff said sincerely. "I shoulda known something was up. I had extra people over at the jail, but I should've known Taylor might send someone after you."

"What are you doing?" Dr. Jeff Hannaford asked as he walked up after the dust had settled and stood looking down at Mark McCormick.

"Thought I might take a rest, enjoy the town a little, whaddya _think_ I'm doin'?"

"We got shanghaied, Jeff," Hardcastle explained as he pointed to the man in the handcuffs.

"And that's another thing," Mark complained. "Since when have you guys gotten so buddy-buddy. Jeff...Milt."

"Look, Kid, you've been out of it some, so you've missed some things. And don't go sayin' anything that you'll regret. You know there's only one doctor in this town."

"Honestly, I am too tired to say much." Mark looked back and forth between the judge and Hannaford. "Is one of you going to help me up?"

"Maybe Julie here could just go and get you a blanket and a pillow so that you can enjoy more people watching here in town," Hannaford joked.

"Hey, that's a good one, Jeff."

"Thanks, Milt."

"Now I know you're just doin' it to annoy me." Mark started to struggle onto his right side, hoping to be able to use his left foot, and right knee, to force himself up. "I can get up by myself."

Both men went to either side. "Yeah, you're gonna pull something doing that," Hardcastle said. With their help, Mark was up and heading to the room.

"Um, do I need to check you two out?" Dr. Hannaford asked.

"Oh, yeah, Judge. He got some good kicks in. Are you okay?" McCormick immediately dropped his whining in favor of worry for his friend.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Tell you what. Let me come and take a quick look," the physician offered. He turned to McCormick. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"I'll probably have a bruise on my butt, but other than that, I'm all right." The three men turned toward the hotel. The room was only down the road another twenty-five feet or so. The sheriff stopped them before they had gone just a couple of those.

"Uh, Judge Hardcastle, Mr. McCormick? Julie? I'm going to need statements from each of you."

"Today?" Mark asked. He was starting to feel unwell again. He was still fighting a slight fever and he was so, so tired. He looked so pitiful that the sheriff hated to tell him what he had to tell him.

"I'm afraid today is the day. We have a judge from the county who comes once a week, and tomorrow's that day. We need all our ducks in a row to present to him by ten in the morning."

Mark looked to the judge. Hardcastle could see that McCormick wasn't going to make it long enough to give his statement. He wanted to get them on the road early so that they could make the trip in one day. It would be a long day, but it was necessary in order for Mark to get in to his doctor and get the care he needed for his foot the day after they got back. But the kid looked unwell, dark smudges under his eyes, his cheeks hollow from weeks of poor or no food, and certainly no nutritious food. The fever. The pain still evident from his foot. No, if they were going to give statements this day, it would have to be later on, into the evening.

"Tell you what," Hardcastle started with the sheriff. "The kid here and I could use some decent sleep. We're going to go do that, so we'll be back at your office around six thirty." The judge looked the sheriff in the eyes and dared him to ask for an earlier time.

"I understand. I'll take Keller back to jail. Julie, can I come over to the hotel and get your statement this afternoon?"

"Sure, Sheriff."

"Oh, by the way, Julie...what was in that bag of yours? Might need to register it as a lethal weapon," the judge noted wryly.

"Oh, well, it's my notebook."

"A notebook? A notebook incapacitated a man who was getting the better of both of these two?" the sheriff asked. Hardcastle and McCormick frowned at each other at the phrasing of the question.

"It's a three-inch, hard-sided notebook full of recipes. If I got him with a sharp edge," she started, then paused and looked at Keller, "and I hope I did," she added with one eyebrow raised, "then maybe I'll have not only helped these two nice men but also prevented more like this one from coming into the world." Keller growled at Julie. Julie sent a smirk his way, and a loud, "tsk", and turned to head to work. She stopped and said to the judge and Mark, "By the way, I went to culinary school, and I'm cooking tonight in the dining room. I'll make you something special."

"Thanks, Julie," the judge called as she headed in the opposite direction from where they were headed. Mark remained mute...momentarily.

"How do you know Julie?" McCormick asked quizzically.

"I told ya, Sport. You've been out of it some with that fever."

"She's pretty."

"Don't even think about it," Hardcastle countered.

"Why not?" Mark asked tiredly. The judge wondered if maybe McCormick wasn't carrying on the conversation just as a way to stay awake, because he sure didn't seem to be thinking this whole thing through very well.

"Why not? Did some of your brains get fried with that fever? She lives here. You don't."

"I could."

"Not for a while longer."

"But, you said..." McCormick spoke sadly.

"It doesn't matter what I say, you still have to finish your parole," Hardcastle said quietly, though he was sure the doctor had overheard...just as sure as he was that McCormick had missed that fact entirely.

"Oh. Yeah."

"Come on. Let's let the doc go about his business, have him give us the once-over and get some shut-eye."

"'Kay."

Hardcastle and Hannaford looked at each other knowingly. McCormick had gone from a little whiney to a lot tired, and the judge knew that the shorter the comment from the kid, the quicker and harder the fall. They needed to get McCormick to bed.

"Is there something I need to know about?" the doctor asked.

"Let's get him inside and we can talk."

Once inside the room it was much like Hardcastle remembered it was when taking the clothes off his young son after a long, tiring day out. McCormick was all loose-limbed and nearly asleep sitting up. They got his jacket and his shoes off and decided that was good enough. He didn't seem any worse for the wear, so Hannaford decided to leave him be. He and the judge laid him on the still-made bed, tossed Hardcastle's coat over him and went to the far side of the room.

The doctor checked the areas where Hardcastle said he'd been hit. He palpated everything, found some bad bruising but nothing that appeared threatening. The judge was feeling a little stiff, and the doctor prescribed some ibuprofen and sleep.

"So, Mark's had some trouble with the law?" the physician asked.

"Yeah. I sent him to prison for grand theft auto. Two years."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, it was rough on him."

"What happened? Did you find evidence that proved he didn't do it and get him out?" Jeff asked.

"Not exactly. He was guilty, and he served his time. But he got in a little trouble once he got out, and I, well, we worked out a deal where he would under my supervision for his parole if he stayed clean. And he has. He's a good kid."

"I can see that you have great affection for him. I have two boys, well, they're grown men now, but I know what it's like to love your children so much."

"He's not my son," Hardcastle quickly corrected.

"I know. But he's like a son. Am I wrong?"

The judge looked at this man who he'd only just met and found that he couldn't lie to him. He didn't want to, and he no longer wanted to deny what Mark McCormick meant to him.

"He means as much to me now as my son did when he was alive."

Dr. Mark Hannaford nodded. "Well, then, my prescription to you is to, a) get some sleep…you're looking a little rough, and b) tell him. You told me earlier that you thought it was your job to protect him and that you hadn't done a very good job of it. But it seems to me that Mark survives a lot on gut instinct, and there's no denying that having a good one of those will get him far. But it's important to protect a person's soul, too. You two have a special relationship, it was clear from the moment I met you. But it certainly never hurts to hear that you're cared for, that you mean something to someone else, that not having that person there would leave a huge hole in your life."

"You sound like you talk from experience, Jeff."

"I do. But it's from the right side, that experience. I lost my wife three years ago, to cancer. But our last year, as we fought the tumor – fought for her life – was the dearest time of our lives. Our boys visited often, our grandchildren did, too. The rest of our family, and our friends, had the time – quality time with her that meant the world to her and made the end not quite as terrible as it may have been. We fought the good fight, and then when we knew we couldn't lick it, we made what we could of that last time together. No regrets. It was amazing, especially for the little ones, who were losing their grandma, a moniker that Sherri was still getting used to."

"You don't look old enough for grandkids," Hardcastle said, the ache of missing out clear to the physican.

"We were lucky to meet young and know what we wanted."

"My wife died."

"And your son," the doctor said. "It's a very hard thing."

"It is."

"But having people who mean something in your life can help heal the wounds of loss," Hannaford explained.

"I know."

"Well," Jeff said as he patted the judge's knee. He stood up and continued, "Then you know a lot. So, to bed. Sleep. And have a good trip home."

"Hey, would you like to join us for dinner? It'll probably be around seven-ish, once we finish giving the sheriff our statements."

"Thanks for the invite, but I've got plans tonight. I've met someone, and I think it's time to pursue some new happiness."

"Good luck," Hardcastle wished for his new acquaintance. It seemed a funny thing to say after his and McCormick's bad luck on this trip, or in light of Mark's thoughts on his own, at best, bruised experiences with luck. "By the way, why _are_ you out here in this wilderness?"

"Well, the town isn't exactly as unsophisticated as it seems. There's a new road being built, and some new vacation properties opening up over at the lake. A retirement community is to be built in the next year on the approach to town. Sherri and I had planned to retire to a small town for our empty nest years. I think she would have approved of this place. Taylor and his like were not going to last. I'd have done something to get them out of here if you and Mark hadn't happened along. I owe you my thanks."

"Well, you're welcome. But I owe you some thanks, too."

"Maybe we should just count this as some good fortune, maybe get Mark to thinking that he does have some good luck in his life. He has you, after all." Dr. Jeff Hannaford shook Milt Hardcastle's hand and left the room.

The judge smiled as he thought about that, about him being a bit of good luck in the young man's life. McCormick would never agree that it was true. He'd complain about all of his chores at the estate, or risking his life for another of the judge's pursuits of justice, or having to prepare one-too-many meals in a row. Hardcastle smiled as he took his clothes off, down to his t-shirt and boxers, and got into bed, smiling about how he'd kid the kid about him being his lucky charm.

Oh, what a ride home that will be, he thought, still smiling as he fell to sleep, satisfied and at peace with his own good fortune.

The End.


End file.
